Stories about people. Some of them true.

I think that if I was at the start-of-year party of the Religious Studies Department of a large American University and I was having a nice chat with a guy in his early forties who I didn’t know very well and then all of a sudden a twelve year old who I assumed was that guy’s son rushed up to him growling and started punching and slapping him about the head and shoulders one of the first questions I would have is, “What is that guy thinking.”

I think I can authoritatively say that the guy was thinking: “Ok, so how do I de-escalate this?”

But, he was also thinking, “How do I des-escalate this in a way that also indicates to the people observing this, that I am also Not OK with being beaten around the head and shoulders by my son? I mean, I can’t have them thinking that the de-escalating that I am doing is flavored with capitulation and acquiescence, can I?”

And he was also thinking, “If I ask this boy ‘What’s wrong?’, will they think that I think it’s ok for this boy to beat me about the head and shoulders as long as he has a decent reason?”

He was thinking, “If I ask him, ‘Is there something you would like to say to me?’ Will they understand that I am setting him up for using his words next time and attempting to break through the Fog of War that he is operating within, even though I am not directly calling out his bad behavior.”

Furthermore, he also thought “Holy God, this behavior enrages me. I could easily spin him around, apply a stiff Full Nelson to his arms and head, wrap my legs around his legs and stop him in his tracks. Then I’d be in control and everyone would know I’m in control. But then he’d bellow and fight back and shout absurdities and stop everyone in the middle of their conversations and I’d be sitting in a room of adults with a screaming, struggling boy. And he’d be more confused and more angry and less likely to make it through the next forty minutes of this nice party and my wife (and I) would be mortified, ashamed and overwhelmed with stress.”

And in conclusion he thought, “It’s interesting how the practices of non-violent conflict resolution and the successful techniques of care for special needs people have so much in common.”

When Sasha and I arrived home today Martin was upset because it was my birthday. Well, actually, Martin was upset because it was not his birthday. Well, actually, Martin was upset because we have a tradition of letting the person whose birthday it is take the first bite of cake.

“Dad, why do I have to wait for you to take the first bite of cake?”

Jen stepped in. “We’re not having cake for dessert. We’re having ice cream.”

“Dad, why do I have to wait for you to take the first bite of ice cream?”

Jen interceded again. “But, Martin, remember that for Papa’s birthday we decided that we would all take the first bite together?”

Martin whimpered and came over for a little hug. I kissed him on the head. “How did you start thinking about this, Martin?”

“When it was Mama’s birthday I did not want to wait for her to take the first bite of cake.”

“Ah, so you’re thinking about Mama’s birthday party?”

“Yes and I had to go into The Nook and cry.”

Sasha said, “Martin, you’re supposed to let the birthday person take the first bite because it’s their special day.”

“But I do not want it to be a special day.”

I put my work bag in the closet.

Jen gave him a red piece of folded construction paper. He looked at it and then handed me the homemade birthday card. While I read it, he tucked his head under my arm, gave me a hug and whimpered a little.

The card said: “I love you. Thanks for the nice things that you have done with me.”

From under my arm, he said: “The picture is a drawing I made of a temple that I found on a new Minecraft game. I did not want to make a birthday card. I do not like that it is your birthday, because I do not like waiting to take a bite until after you do.”

Jen emailed me at work. Subject: “RU there?” Body: “Please call home. Martin is being scary.” From time to time, she will write me notes when Martin is being difficult, sometimes asking me to call and talk to him to try to calm him down. But somehow this seemed more urgent. I think it was the use of internet shorthand.

I called her back immediately. Voicemail. I called again. No answer. I called three more times. No answer. Finally, she answers. She has Martin’s neurologist’s office on the other line. Would I call back in five minutes?

I call back in five minutes. “Sasha and I are locked in the bedroom. Martin is banging on the door and screaming. He really might break it. He has hit me and kicked me. I’m going to be covered in bruises tomorrow. The neurologist wasn’t available. I’m going to talk to his nurse when we hang up.”

“I’m on my way.”

Twenty minutes later I arrive home. Martin is at the kitchen table eating cereal. Jen looks stricken. Sasha is nowhere. Jen informs me that a woman from church has Sasha at her house. The nurse suggested that based on his danger to himself and others that we should take Martin to the emergency room. “What for?” I wonder. “A psych consult.” I don’t really know what that is or how it will help Martin, but it’s clear that something needs to be done.

Martin is fairly calm as we get into the car. He’s usually pretty calm in the car. Something about riding in the car calms him.

The ER is less than a mile away. As we approach, Martin recognizes that the hospital we are nearing includes a play area on its grounds which we have passed many times. We have always told him he can’t play at it since it is only for children in the hospital. He wonders aloud if, since he is now going to the hospital, he can go to the play area. “After, we see the doctor, maybe we can go to the play area.”

The visitor parking area for the ER looks full. I drop Martin and Jen off at the entrance and pass through the gate, but I want to join them as quickly as possible. Martin’s calm right now, but I doubt his compliant demeanor will survive the intake process. The only empty spots in the lot are handicap-only. I have no idea where the next closest lot is so I find an unobtrusive non-parking-spot to put my car into, jump out and head into the ER.

Martin and Jen are standing in front of the intake desk. Martin is pacing and repeatedly asking Jen if he can go to the play area. A friendly, nervous woman is passing Jen papers to fill out. A uniformed Austin Police Department officer looks up from a newspaper as I walk in. I consider asking him about the parking situation, but Martin sees me and heads off down a hallway past the entry area, striding confidently away from all of us. I follow him.

Thirty yards down the long hallway Martin pauses and asks me if he can go to the play area. “I don’t know where the play area is, but we can find out after you see the doctor.” “I don’t want to see the doctor.” And he continues down the hall.

He starts past a waiting area with dozens of couches and several TVs which are playing cartoons. I scan for magazines, books or toys that he might appeal to him. I doubt that any of their offerings will have any drawing power, but I ask him if he sees anything interesting. I figure it might slow him down long enough for Jen to finish the paper work.

Intake Nurse

In the first stroke of luck so far, just as he is reporting his disappointment in the magazine selection to me, the nervous woman from the front desk calls down the hallway that the intake nurse is ready for us.

The nurse is young, six-foot four and sports a long hipster beard. Martin follows him toward the scales, but wants to know if there will be any shots. I answer that I think it’s unlikely and look to the nurse for confirmation. He says, “We might need to” even though he can’t possibly have any idea why Martin is at the hospital nor what treatments it will require. Thanks, buddy.

As he readies the blood pressure collar, Martin tells the nurse, “Do not squeeze my arm too hard!” twice. But of course it does and in response — as he has been doing with increasing frequency over the past month — Martin sticks out his straining neck, vibrates his head, squinches his eyes, bares his teeth and growls at the nurse. His face is ugly and threatening.

The nurse steps back a bit, eying Martin dispassionately, and waits until Martin stops. Then immediately moves on to the next measurement on his checklist. By the time Martin leaves the nursing station, he’s fully riled up. As we leave, he growls at the nurse some more. A middle-aged female nurse, accompanied by an orderly ushers us through a set of double doors and down a hall toward an intake room. Jen walks with the hospital personnel. “I want to go to the play area.” “We need to go talk to the doctor first.” “I do not want to talk to the doctor. He will want to give me a shot.” “I don’t think there will be any shots today, Martin.” I put my hand on his shoulder, steer him past the hallway to the play area and down the hall toward a private room. I am hoping we will find something there to distract and calm him. If we don’t this is going to get physical soon. I can see it in his furtive eyes.

The Emergency Room

The door to the emergency room is placed in a solid glass wall enabling us to see everything within the room: several chairs along the left wall, a hospital bed, a tv suspended above it on a flexible arm protruding from the right hand wall, the back wall is taken up entirely by cabinets and instrumentation. The orderly ushers the nurse, Jen and Martin into the room. I hesitate, try to ask the orderly what is happening next and then get ushered in myself. The nurse explains that more measurements are needed and asks Martin to climb onto the bed.

I take his shoulders in my hands, pull him toward me for a quick hug and then usher him to the bed. He climbs up and lays down. I step back to let the nurse do her work, hoping she won’t pull out a needle. “I need to take his blood pressure,” she says, stepping around the bed with a black cuff. “Can we skip that, please?” I ask. “The intake nurse already took it.” Martin sees the cuff and recoils. “Do not squeeze my arm!” He lowers his brow and glares. “I don’t have those numbers,” the nurse explains, continuing to him. “I’ll need to hold him.” I say and I take his hand.

“Do not squeeze my arm!” He starts to get up.
I place my other hand on his chest and lock eyes with him. “It’s going to be ok. Just a squeeze.” I can feel the heat of his body through his shirt. “Please, do not squeeze my arm.”

The nurse wraps the cuff around his bicep and holds his shoulder with her hand. Now he really starts to struggle. I lean in to him, pushing my cheek against this forehead. I’m trying to comfort him at the same time as I prevent him from flailing. He strains against me, but he doesn’t fight me at full strength and the nurse gets her numbers.

When she’s done, she turns to leave the room. “What happens next?” I ask, still holding Martin on the bed trying to keep him there in case she wants to do any other unnecessary procedures. “The doctor needs to see him.” “When will the doctor be in? ” “Not too long.” “Can he get off the bed in the meantime?” “It doesn’t matter.”

It matters to me, so as she exits, I carefully let him up. “Please sit with me in these chairs.” “I do NOT want to stay here.” “We need to see the doctor.” I loosen my grip and he bolts for the door.

An orderly who had been seated next to the door, looking at us through the glass now moves to block the door. Martin can’t turn the doorknob, so I easily close the distance between us, wrap him up in a hug and carry him, squirming back to the chairs.

Martin has just turned 10. He weighs 85 lbs. He’s not especially strong, but he’s very, very motivated, so holding him without hurting him is hard. I have one arm wrapped around his chest, pinning his arms to his sides. He’s on my lap. I’m on a plastic chair. I have one leg wrapped around his legs, pinning them to one another. My other arm picks up stray limbs. His whole body, all of its energy is devoted to escape. He heaves and lunges away. When he heaves I give as much ground as I dare and then gather him back up when he runs out of energy. This technique saves my energy and protects us both from the worst of the impacts that his lunges could cause.

At the same time he is demanding that I let go of him. “Can you sit still?” “I cannot sit still. I want to go home.” “We need to see the doctor, first.” “I do not want to see the doctor.”

Occasionally during our fifteen minute struggle, one of the people on the other side of the glass pokes their head in the door. First, an orderly, offers to take a turn holding Martin. I feel like Martin would stay relaxed a bit better if I do it, so I ask the orderly for holding technique suggestions. He watches for a minute and says he thinks I’m doing ok.

A bit later, Jen comes in for a bit and sits beside us. “I can’t believe this. What’s wrong with him?” “I know. But, what’s going on out there? What’s going to happen next? What are they doing?” “The doctor will be in in a bit. ” “Would it be alright if we show him a movie in the meantime? We’ve got to get him thinking about something else. Would you like to watch a movie, Martin?” “You mean like Wall-e?” “Yes, like Wall-E.” “Yes. Can you get it on your phone?” “If I could get Wi-Fi.”

A woman comes in and asks us a few questions about Martin’s history. “Can you help us get connected to the Wi-Fi?” I ask. “I’m not sure.” I take out my phone and ask Jen to see if she can get connected. “It needs a password. Do you know it?” The woman doesn’t know it, but says she’ll check and see. She leaves and we don’t see her for a while.

Martin broke free and made it to the door again, but I caught up to him again before he breached it and got him back to the chair. “Please see if you can get this connected, dear,” I begged. Jen left the room and I could see her out in the hallway asking people for the password.

Minutes pass and eventually a different woman brings an iPad into the room. She shows it to Martin. “Does it have Wall-E on it?” “No, but it has Sesame Street games.” The woman taps and app icon. Martin turns his head away from the iPad and says, “I want to go home, NOW! I do not want to play Sesame Street.” I say, “He’s very specific about what he wants. It’s not going to work to just offer him random things.” She’s really trying. “I think it has some Clifford games on it, too. “He’s going to want to see something he’s already familiar with. Do you have any Wild Kratts or Phineas and Ferb videos?

She really wants to help. “Let’s try the, TV.” “Do you know the Wi-Fi password?” “No. Do you think he might want to watch the TV.” “That depends.” She turns on the TV and for a moment Martin doesn’t struggle. “This is not Phineas and Ferb!” The commercial fades and Spongebob, Squarepants” comes on. Once, when he was six, someone asked us if Martin could watch Spongebob in front of Martin and we said “No, that show doesn’t seem appropriate for him.” or something. He overheard us and from then on whenever someone mentioned Spongebob Martin acted as if someone had suggested we eat a human for dinner. So, the minute the

I balked longer than Jen did, despite the fact that many members of my family have used psychotropic drugs to solve problems. My dad, a psychiatric social worker working in state-operated out-patient mental health for most of the last 35 years, witnessed first-hand the effect psychotropics in general and anti-psychotics in particular had on the population of mentally ill people in his care. During those years, drugs enabled tens of thousands of people (including a woman who lives in my parents’ care now) to be safely moved from prison-like mental hospitals out into the community. People who once struggled to control violent or self-destructive impulses now live dramatically more free and comfortable lives among us.*

My sister Julie and I had more ambivalent experiences with drugs as children. We took ADHD drugs back in the early 80s–well before it became cool to take ADHD drugs. We both struggled in school. When we started on Ritalin, she was angrily battling to learn to read and I was constantly frustrated by my inability to manage my homework assignments and my restlessness in class.

Although our teachers and parents described some improved outcomes shortly after we started taking the drugs, neither Julie nor I experienced any dramatic long-term improvement. And, in my case anyway, the social blow-back of being the first kid in the school on spaz drugs far outweighed whatever marginal benefits to my concentration I may have received from taking them.

I wasn’t particularly worried about social blow-back for Martin. For one, he seems–at least for the moment–to be completely immune to embarrassment. And in the current climate, his acting out behaviors carry a much heavier weight of stigma than taking some drugs would. However my experiences did affect my reluctance to start Martin on a regimen of psychotropics.

In particular, I remember my ambivalence about having my brain changed. Not only did the drugs have a physiologically strange effect on me, I also just felt weird about altering my brain. How would I be able to tell what was the “real” me? Did I want to be different than I was? In the years after I started taking the drugs I often wondered how I would be different if I didn’t take them. What if I would have simply learned to cope with my disability on my own? How would I be able to tell if I didn’t need the drugs anymore?

As we were contemplating medicating him, I had some of the same concerns for Martin. What if drugging him hampered his ability to learn to regulate his behavior himself? How would we know when he didn’t need them anymore? Would he ever come to wonder how things would have been different for him if he never took the drugs?

In the end the reasons for putting him on the medication overwhelmed my reluctance. However I believe the questions I was asking are the right ones and I intend to continue to ask them and attempt to monitor them as well as I can.

* The process of deinstitutionalization that I discuss in brief above is actually quite complex and not at all unambiguously salvific. For more information you can consult your local historian of medicine or look up deinstitutionalization on wikipedia.

Poster’s Comments:Sissy Clavat was an active member of the Pittsburgh arts community in the mid-90s. I will be posting photographs and descriptions of various of her works on this site along with her inimitable “artists comments” (minor works of art in themselves) and some of her writings and perhaps some writings about her and her work. Below is a sample of the first category from 1995.

I chose the rectangular shape of the piece to convey that while not strictly speaking “square,” local politics in Western Pennsylvania (emphasis on “Western”) don’t break much from the metaphoric four-sided parallelogramic nature of European-derived culture too awful much, do they? The colors, their meaning and their arrangement’s meaning are too obvious to mention. Red: the blood of the Native Injuns, Homestead strikers, and Jonny Gammage. Yellow: the urine of the anti-statist. Tan pallor (found chiefly in the frame): the unifying frame which both literally and figuratively ‘holds this artwork together,’ serves to hint to the audience (nudge, nudge) that the artist is aware that the artist/anti-statist is inextricably bound up in the game of oppressor by the incontrovertible color (tan) of their privileged (an accursed privilege, in the case of the artist) skin color. Note also the self-conscious conventionality of the very use of a ‘frame,’ a Western trope which tells the viewer, “Hi, person! You are Viewer. I am Art.”

Artist’s Hint

There is hope though: (Art without hope, like an ape without a heart, is dead.) See how the blood and urine, the fluid of sustenance and the fluid of relief, commingle?

–Sissy T. Clavat (August 17, 1996)

Curator’s Comments:

Sis Clavat came to my attention at a pizza party in New Haven. A strapping young woman with (according to mutual friends) “an angry brush and a happy canvas,” she cut a striking figure standing contra-posto with a kitchen gadget in one hand and a neighbor’s wriggling child on the opposite hip. Right away I knew that if she drew like she dressed, or if she sculpted self-portrayals, I would simply have to have one of her works for my show. As it turned out she was into primary colors and primate politics, so it turned out okay anyway.

9. The Plague of Darkness: 8:20pm
I am in the basement sitting at the computer when Jen gets home. Martin is in our bedroom standing the smallest Lincoln Logs on their ends shoulder to shoulder along the baseboard. Or at least that’s where he had been when when I had gone downstairs. I am actively indifferent to his location.
Jen calls a greeting down the stairs and asks me how things were going. I stay at the computer and call up, “not good.” She asks if she can help. I say I am not doing anything that requires assistance at the moment.
She says, “So, ‘not good’ means ‘pretty bad,’ huh?”
I say, “Yes.”
She says, “Can I take over, then?”
I say (bitterly instead of gratefully), “Yes.”
She says, “I brought you some food from the Seder. Should I bring it down?”
Martin hollers from our room, “Why did you not want me at the Seder?”
Jen to me, “Has it been like that the whole time?”
I call up, “Yes, and worse.” I tell her a bit about hitting and the crying and the peeing.
When she’s heard enough, she leaves the stairwell to attend to him.

I try to concentrate on the screen before me, but I end up listening to more of their conversation than I want.
Despite her efforts to mollify, distract and re-route him, he is inconsolable when it comes to the Seder Plate.
Him: “Mama, let’s go to the Seder.”
Her: “But, Martin, the Seder is over.”
Him: “Why do you not want me to go to the Seder.”
Her: “It’s not like that….”
Him: “But, I did not have the lamb bone, the bitter herb, the vegetable, the maror, the haroset and the egg.”
Her: “Well….”
Him: “But I have to have the lamb bone, the bitter herb, the vegetable, the maror, the haroset and the egg.”
Her: “Well….”

As I listen, I am rooting for Jen to figure out a way to get him to go to bed without either the Seder plate or fabulous temper tantrum. Actually, I don’t care much about the temper tantrum. I just want him to not get what he wants. I want him to be disappointed. I want him to suffer.

Her: “… Well, we can make a Seder plate.”
Him: “Let’s get the lamb bone, the bitter herb, the vegetable, the maror, the haroset and the egg.”

She takes him to the refrigerator and in short order they gather the “vegetable” (celery stalk), a fresh egg, the maror (horseradish sauce), and haroset (from the plate of food they’d brought me). Jen suggests they use some dried basil from the cupboard for the “bitter vegetable,” but Martin doesn’t understand this literal interpretation of the phrase (partly because he would never eat dried basil). He drifts closer to tizzy.
She says, “How about we draw some?” (This had worked the time he wanted to gather all of the animals from the book African Animals ABC.) He starts to say, “Yes” but changes his mind. “Paper is not the bitter vegetable.” Things are getting pretty tense when Jen finds some wilted celery greens in the back of the fridge that look enough like the parsley that is pictured in his book to pass muster.
The lamb bone is another matter altogether. We simply have nothing that resembles a bone.
By now, Jen’s enthusiasm and success have drawn me in and I am actively supporting the project. I offer to paint an empty roll of toilet paper or check my pile of wood scraps for an oddly shaped dowel rod or something. However, Martin’s standards are rising as the evening progresses. Jen suggests that we call a neighbor and see if they have a bone around from a recent meaty meal. I point out that it’s almost 10pm. We shouldn’t call anyone at his hour. I can’t figure out if Jen looks determined or just crazy when she says, “They’ll understand.”
The first person she calls has not gone to bed yet, nor do they offer an opinion on the determined/crazy question, nor have they had a meaty meal. The second person hasn’t either, but they do have dog and, hence, some dog bones. Jen runs over to their house to fetch one.
When the complete plate is presented to Martin he is quite satisfied. He recites the text of the children’s Seder book he has been reading, fondling each of the sacred objects as he quotes the description of it from the book. On the second run through he begins to sample the food from the plate: eating a bites of haroset, nibbling at the celery, pressing the dog bone and maror to his lips, and finally cracking open the raw egg and spilling its contents on the table.

Satisfied, Martin graciously yields when Jen beckons him into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

10. The Plague of the First-Born: 10:30pm
When we first considered the possibility that Martin might be autistic four years ago it mostly seemed like good news. I mean we already knew that his speech was delayed. We already knew that he seemed largely oblivious to other humans much of the time. We already knew he was beautiful and charming and that we loved him. So, at first blush, the diagnosis was good news because it seemed to promise answers to the questions that were bothering us most: why and what should we do.
However, as we read more and more about autism, a dreadful prospect I had not previously considered emerged: it began to seem possible that Martin’s present indifference to us might never change. I mean, it also seemed possible that none of it might ever change, but the part of him never changing that really bothered me was the possibility that Martin might never learn to love me.
I felt that the burden of raising a child who spoke only in quotations of Muppet movies, who was perpetually socially awkward and who never learned to live independently could be borne. But I was not sure at all that I could bear to raise someone who was perpetually aloof.
So, I am sitting at the computer, listening to my wife placate the little villain who struck me in the face, purposefully peed on a chair, shamed me in front of my neighbors and perpetually defied my every attempt to reign him in and I am thinking about Seder. The notion of writing a blog entry about this evening has already occurred to me as has the idea of arranging it into a series of plagues. I start pairing up sections of the evening with the plagues on the Egyptians. Martin’s autism stands in for the Wrath of God. Some plagues go in easily, others require a little shoehorning, but the glaring problem is, of course, what to do with the final impossibly brutal plague.
Martin is my first born child, my first born son, and four years ago I thought he might never come alive to me as a son. He could not carry a conversation beyond the answering of a few simple questions. He almost never asked his own questions.

Now, he and his mother walk down the stairs behind me, Jen is coaxing him toward his room.
Her: Let’s go down to bed, buddy.
Him: It *is not* time for me to go to bed.
Her: Well, it *is* snuggle time. Let’s go snuggle in your bed.
Him (wordless compliance):
Me: Good night, Martin. I love you, buddy.
Him: I love you, too.

Despite being unceremoniously tossed across my back, jostled down a flight of stairs and flopped onto the sidewalk, he hits the ground trotting and now, following the brief delay storming the home of our dear neighbors, Martin embarks on his campus circuit. I turn on the iPod listening to Marc Maron‘s podcast and moving just fast enough to keep him in sight.
Going up the sidewalk we pass 135 chalk drawings of the 44 Presidents, 47 Vice-Presidents and 44 First Ladies (James Buchanan never married, but his niece Harriet Lane served as his First Lady.)

The circuit is going well when we get to the library. This is almost always the trickiest part. Two weeks earlier when Sasha, Martin and I returned from one of these trips Jen asked how it went I said, “From the time I found Martin in ‘the men’ with his pants around his ankles and a trail of feces reaching back to the door, things went absolutely perfect.” (I was not being sarcastic, actually. I honestly felt quite lucky that: 1) His stool was quite firm. 2) He let me wipe his legs down with soapy wet paper towels 3) The trash can had spare plastic bags in the bottom of it in which I was able to quarantine Martin’s underwear and the paper towels 4) No one burst into the bathroom to find me on all fours sweatily scrubbing the tile grout with paper towels and my son watching me pantsless in the stall doorway and 5) Sasha did not panic when left alone with the United States puzzle for five minutes while I cleaned up the bathroom.)

This time though Martin is fine until he notices that the table of four college students nearest the door has a tray of five cupcakes. He says, “I think I should like to have a cupcake. (Borrowing the phrasing from a book, of course. Probably Winnie the Pooh or something.)” He stands and points his middle finger at the table (not an obscene gesture, just the way he points). I say, “Martin, the cupcakes belong to the young men and the young woman. You may not have them unless they offer them to you.” He replies, “But they HAVE to offer them to me, but they are NOT offering them to me.” I scoop up the dinosaurs he had been playing with and put them back while I try to draw his attention away from the cupcakes. It doesn’t work. He’s getting louder again. I scoop him up.

“Put me down. I can walk. (This phrase from an Amelia Bedilia book.)” I get him to the elevator. He likes the elevator and it’s the next stop on the circuit, so when the doors open and I put him down he doesn’t run out. We’ve made it to the next stage.

8. The Plague of Flies: 7:40pm

The rest of the circuit passes hitchlessly. He goes from station to station with me following close enough to intercede if necessary, but no intercession is necessary. I am feeling a little relieved as we come back down the sidewalk past the former denizens of the White House. Perhaps I can get him into bed in reasonably short order and this tumultuous evening can be over.

Oddly though, he doesn’t go through the garage door as he usually does. Instead he stays on the sidewalk and continues past our house, to the corner and turns down the block.

Me: Martin. Where are you going?

Him: …

Good God. How long is this evening going to drag on? When I reach the corner, I see that he has cut through the yard and around to the back door. I’m still annoyed, but glad he’s gone back into the house. I follow him in, taking my time.

I head into the kitchen to get a drink and find the counter next to the sink flooded, water dripping onto the floor and two rivulets are making their way across the kitchen and under the refridgerator.

Me: Martin! What on earth?! Why did you poor water on the counter? What… what the… what…?

Him (coming back into the room from his sister’s bedroom, one of his arms is drenched from the shoulder down.): Papa. Don’t shout. You should not shout.

Me (reaching for a dishtowel to begin my second major Martin cleanup of the evening): Martin. What is this? Did you do this on purpose? Or was it an accident? Was it on purpose? Yes-on purpose or no-on accident. (I have no idea if I will get an answer to this question. Mostly, I am saying it to teach Martin that this is something to wonder about in moments such as this.)

Him: It was on purpose.

Me: What? Why? Why did you pour the water?

Him: I don’t know.

I am furious. I feel worried that I’ll say the horrible things I am thinking if I open mouth, so I work quietly sopping up the water.

The dishtowel has gotten dirty from being used to clean under fridge. I move to the sink and lift the handle on the faucet to rinse it off. Water jets across the kitchen, catching me on the stomach and re-drenching the counter I have just mopped up. The auxiliary faucet, a sort of sprayer unit contraption, is shooting water everywhere. I snatch at it to make it stop and discover that its handle is stuck in the on position.

Of course, this solves the mystery of the water on the floor. The mystery that I had not realized was mysterious. Martin had, like me, innocently turned on the faucet only to be greeted by a violent outpouring of unexpected water. To make matters worse for him, this was followed moments later by a violent outpouring of unexpected vituperations.

Faucet and Sprayer

Martin wanders back into his sister’s room. I think about apologizing to him, but I can’t figure out a way to phrase it so he’ll understand what I mean. I go to the basement to get some more towels and pass the steam cleaner. I work on my apology speech some more. I find that I want to say that I’m sorry, but I also want to explain to him that the reason I made the mistake is because he is impossible to talk to, impossible to reason with, impossible to live with, impossible to be alive with. I find that I feel sure that offering a real apology won’t make him feel better and that offering the apology that I want to offer will make me feel much worse.

Me (plaintively): I do want you to be at the seder. But you have to listen to adults at the seder. Can you do that?

Him (yelling): I can not do what adults want me to do at the seder.

Me (firmly): Then we will have to go home.

repeat 4x

… and then we are home.

He walks into the living room and sits on the couch beneath our picture window. The lights are off, but the evening sun through the windows reflects off the burnished wood floors and lights up his mordant little face. I sit in an armchair opposite him. My face feels hard. His face looks grim. I have won. Now that we are home, I feel safe.

I apologize for being rough with him. He cries and asks why I pushed him in the car and why I yelled at him and why my eyebrows were down. I put my eyebrows up and tell him to look and see that my eyebrows are up. I apologize for yelling at him.

Then we repeat the script about seder two more times.

5. The Plague of Lice: 6:10pm

I need to eat, so I go into the kitchen to cook macaroni and cheese. Martin stays in the living room for a bit reading a book. He is calm now but he’s not talking to me much. I try to be conciliatory whenever I can while steering him toward calmness. I ask him a few questions about school, trying to keep the conversation away from seder.

We repeat the seder script again anyway but then he asks to watch the dvd reading of the book Crysanthemum. I agree, relieved at the prospect of having a bit of time where I’m not confronted with the consequences of having misplayed the entire evening.

We go down into the basement. He sits at the kid’s computer and queues up Crysanthemum. I sit at the adult’s computer, fire up jango, espn.com and a web design blog. I can see him in my peripheral vision. He is instantly immersed in the world of the troubled little eponymous mouse and I find some helpful code examples for a problem I had been working on during the day.

Fifteen painless minutes later, Martin moves in the corner of my eye. “Papa, there is water on my pants.” “What?!? Why?!?” I am asking someone not physically present.

I get out of my seat and walk toward him. On the way, I pass the steam cleaner I had rented earlier in the day to clean previous pissings.

He is standing now with his knees pointed outward looking down at his drenched zipper. At first I think he looks surprised, but then I recognize that it is curiosity, not alarm. I help him out of his pants. He offers to go up and take a shower. I turn on the steam cleaner.

6. Plague of Blood 7:00pm

I have finished the steam cleaning, gathered a load of laundry to accompany his pants in the washer and begun to fold a few things that were leftover from the last load when I hear the front door bang shut. He’s out of the house. I grab my iPod and run out after him guessing that he is heading out for one of his pre-scripted perambulations.

I’m in the mode of just trying to get through this evening, so I’m willing to follow him if he’s planning his typical trip up to the college. His itinerary is complex but I’ve done it dozens and dozens of times: he walks the block up to the college, through the archway in one building, across the quad, past the statue of Abraham Lincoln, up to the third floor of the library, back down and out the front door, across the street into the student center, past the bowling alley, through the snack shop, across the parking lot, into the stadium, down onto the track, into one of the steeplechase pits, out of the stadium, past the fitness center, back across the street, along the long path back to our block and home again.

Once this course has begun there is no chance he will stop it without a fight. However, when I arrive on the sidewalk outside our house, I don’t see him on the sidewalk he would take to get to the college. I break into a trot. How could he be out of sight already?

He is two doors up on our neighbor’s porch. The neighbor is trying to talk him out of coming into their house. Their little boy has gone to bed and so, no Martin, you may not come in to play with his trains. He pushes past her and dashes up the stairs. I push past her too, run up the steps, catch him on the landing, throw him over my shoulder and make an excruciatingly funny joke about home invasions.

We have a book about passover. Martin loves it and has it memorized. Each year that we’ve been in Wooster, we’ve been fortunate to have been invited to participate in a semi-traditional Passover Seder. This year it was held at a local market that has a sort of community room.

As soon as we arrive, I start to worry. To get to the community room we have to pass through the showroom of the market, full of knick-knacks, breakables and (worst of all) things Martin could obsess over. Inside the community room the tables arranged in the room look like they seat about twenty or thirty people. That’s a lot of noise for Martin to manage and a lot of external expectations for me to manage. Only fifteen or so people had arrived and it was already kind of noisy and a bit disorganized. Also Martin is the only boy. Six or seven adorable and obedient little girls sit around a table coloring on a large pad.

Martin immediately runs up to one of the seder plates and picks up the maror. “This is the bitter herb. Where is the lamb bone?” He picksd up the lamb bone. “Here it is! Where is the egg?” He grabs it and shows it to his [unappreciative] audience. This is food we are going to be eating ritualistically. True, most of the people here know who Martin is and none of them lays a great amount of ritualistic significance on the occasion. However, no one really wants to eat food pawed over by a six year old. Who knows where his hands have been?

2. The Plague of Wild Beasts: 5:35pm

A classic parent move: I try to distract him. “Would you like to color on the pad with the girls?” They look unsure. It doesn’t matter, he heads back for the haroset. “Where is the haroset, Papa?” He points and a blob of what probably is the haroset. “Let’s get your President puzzle while we wait for dinner to start.” “It is not time for the President puzzle. I have to look at the Seder Plate.” I nudge him toward the door into the showroom. A display of soaps intrigues him and he starts to make the soaps dance. I nudge some more.

“Why do you want me to go get the puzzle?” He is starting to physically resist. “I just want you to have something fun to do. Lets go out to the car and get it.” I pick him up and carry him toward the door. It is locked. He’s squirming so I want to avoid carrying him through the crowd. I move to another door. Also locked. By now he is pushing at my face and clawing at my sweater. I put him down and he runs. I give chase and scoop him up, determined to get him out the door. I am sweating now and he has hit me in the face twice. He is yelling as we move through the crowd. Thirty polite people are moving out of our way and getting very quiet. I’d like to yell, “Nothing to see here, folks. Go back to your chit chat.” The room is facing us and silent. As the heavy door slams shut behind us Martin lands two solid smacks to my cheek, but I am thrilled. No one saw him hit me.

“Martin, we are going to have to go home now.” “WE DO NOT HAVE TO GO HOME.” “Well, unless you can calm down.” “I will not calm down!” I have his left thigh in the crook of my left arm. My left hand is holding his left arm to keep it from hitting me. My right arm pins his right arm to his torso. My right hand is watching for stray appendages. “PUT ME DOWN! I can walk.” “Will you walk to the car, Martin?” “NO, I will NOT!” There is no way I can take him back in there like this.

3. The Plague of Boils: 5:40pm

We get to the car. I tell him to get into the car. He refuses. I threaten a timeout at home. He momentarily demurs. I open the door. He struggles as I push him in. I close the door and get in the front. As I try to start the car he jumps out and runs toward the building. I chase him down. A grab him, he squirms and kicks. I push him in the car again very roughly. He is shouting. I shout. I get in the front. He opens the door. I get out. I close the door. I don’t care if he’s buckled in. I start the car, and tell him to buckle up. He ignores me and climbs into the front seat. I look over as we leave the parking lot. He is sobbing and tiny in the big front seat. He punches me in the face.

Today marks the seventh consecutive day that Martin has been on green in his classroom. I’m nearly certain that streak is unrivaled this school year. I joked with his teacher that between the streak and the intervening spring break she may actually have bruise-free shins for once this school year.

As soon as I made that joke it felt bad, especially since this teacher is such an extraordinarily nice person. She’s the kind of person who donates a kidney to a stranger. No, really, next week she is donating one of her kidneys to a stranger. And all I can do is worry about what Martin’s going to be like during the four week she is recovering and make jokes about her shins.

Anyway, I got off track there. The duck story is about going to the park. The park is one of those places where Martin has a well-defined series of activities he likes to do. And when I say, one-of-those-places, I basically mean every place Martin has ever been. Martin’s life has three modes: 1. establishing ritualistic behaviors, 2. carrying out ritualistic behaviors, and 3. fighting for his right to carry out ritualistic behaviors. His favorite is mode 2. And mode 2 is where he started the duck story.

Christmas Run Park Pond

His park ritual begins with him running over to the stream that runs through the park. He takes off his shoes and despite the 50 degree air temperature and (presumably) lower water temperature nimbly picks his way through the rocks to the far side. Once there he breaks a bit from his routine (or, more likely, adds a new wrinkle to the routine) and starts to pull down his pants. Me: “Do good peeing Martin. Pull up your pants and go behind that tree.” He complies.

He and his cousin, Toni (age 7), play around the stream for a bit while I skip stones and try to think of something to write for my blog.

The next part of the ritual is for Martin to go over to the skating pond, an 80’x150′ shallow cement pond fed by the stream. Martin calls it the duck pond because there are usually two or three ducks there. He usually walks around the pond a time or two demanding that the ducks come to him. This time he circles the part of the pond where the two ducks have settled after fleeing him. He stands perched fearlessly on the edge of the pond. I’m not worried either, the lip is wide and his balance is excellent.

He calls out to his cousin who is standing near me. “Toni, come here. Jump.” She breaks into a little run and leaps into the air. I am dawdling along the edge, too, fifty feet from them. He points to the concrete lip, “No. Jump here.” And he turns toward the center of the pond. She stands up next to him and jumps up and lands easily on the lip. “No. Like this.” He leans in toward the pond, flexes his knees and broad jumps.

It’s a pretty picture, actually. He’s wearing light brown corduroys and a nice red polo shirt. He has become quite coordinated lately, his motions are beautiful to me. The sky is clear, the evening light is bright and clean. The ducks are watching from a safe distance. He splashes down and sinks to his neck before his feet find the murky bottom. He turns quickly and claws his way up the incline to the lip.

As soon as he gets to his feet I see him start to shiver. He is holding his arms out to keep his wet shirt as far from his skin as possible, but it’s not helping. I offer him his shoes. He puts them on. I say, “I don’t think you can get in the car like that. We’re gonna have to walk home.” Toni wonders how far that is. “Five blocks. We can do it.” My point is to impress on Martin that jumping in a duck pond on a chilly day fully clothed has negative consequences.

When we reach the parking lot, Jen is there with Toni’s mom (my sister), her little sister and our little Sasha. Even though they have just arrived Jen suggests we all just drive home. Martin is shivering uncontrollably, but not complaining. Toni runs and gets a jacket of hers and offers it to Martin. As I help him take of his shirt, my sister asks the question I don’t usually ask anymore.

He doesn’t tell her why. Through his shivering he raises his arm and points back at the pond and chatters, “That is for ducks only!”

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Sasha Vlasits

Martin's little sister and Martinsdad's daughter. She is also Jen Graber's daughter. At the time of this writting she is a cheerful and loquacious little girl who loves and attempts to emulate her older brother.

Birthyear: 2008

Jen Graber

Martin's mom and Martinsdad's wife. She's also Sasha's mom. She used to blog about her experiences with Martin at rainmom.blogspot.com.

Birthyear: 1973

Stacy Vlasits

Martinsdad.

Birthyear: 2008

Antonia "Toni" Underwood

Martin's cousin. Daughter of his eldest aunt. Toni is older than Martin by seven months. She's precocious and assertive.